Flora Harper clamped her naked thighs together, successfully holding the throbbing, whirring Beastmaster in place. Not the right place, but it would get her there. She reached behind and unhooked her bra, flung it across the room, and gasped when her rocking motion nudged the vibrator. Her eyes nearly crossed with pleasure.

"Fuck, yeah."

This time she rocked on purpose, but to her frustration, the sensation didn't repeat. She grabbed it, trying to make the damn thing submit. Instead, her palm grazed the panel of buttons at the base, setting off the blinking fluorescent lights and an electrical monkey-crank version of "Pop Goes the Weasel."

"I would go pop, if you would go round my bush." One of the oddly shaped fingers at the base suddenly hit home, buzzing her clit while the Beastmaster pumped its stupid, rotating, gel-formed head inside her.

Look at him go, George. Look at him go, an insane cartoon voice filled out the asinine mental image of stupid cock and clever clit teasing sidekick of porn.

"Stop thinking about cartoons, genius, you'll never get there."

If she could just...shut off...her brain...long enough to--to--to-- "There it is, baby. There it is." She caught the sensation, squeezing her eyes shut to hang on to it.

Her ears began to ring and her voice sounded like it was bouncing off bathroom tile. The tinge of male sweat teased her nostrils. That's what she needed. It almost seemed real, especially when steam touched her cool cheeks.

"Oh fuck! I'm going to come!"

"That's it, honey. Ride your weasel."

What the fuck? Flora's eyes flew open.

Ian Tate, Dixon City's newly acquired quarterback, stood over her with his hands on the low slung waist of his football uniform. Bare-chested and barefooted, his easy grin and blue eyes were all about seeing the Beastmaster chew an orgasm out of her.

Flora yelped, shot to her feet. Her toes curled on wet shower tile. "Not a-fucking-gain!" she bellowed.

Gelatinous George slipped out of her and hit the floor with a thud. Gyrating, neon-flashing, purple cock squirmed toward the drain on dying chords of "the monkey chased the weasel..." as though it too was embarrassed by its naked exposure.

Pop! goes the weeeeazel.

Ian rubbed the back of his neck. "Whew, Bobby Sterling told me this town was friendly."

Flora crossed an arm over her chest and her hand in front of her apex. "Turn. Around. You fucking pervert."

He gave her a slow once over before conceding. His chuckle did nothing to reassure her dignity.

"I reckon it's all a matter of perspective," he said.

"Did you say Sterling?" Her mind raced. What would the new jock have to do with Bobby? He wasn't in player acquisitions or even the coaching staff. Bobby handled team event bookings.

"The way I see it, I'm minding my own business, gettin' ready to take a shower," he continued, ignoring her question.

"Fuck the shower. How do you know Bobby?"

"Honey, I'd say you already fucked the shower." He chuckled again. "The way I figure it, you provide a very tempting, visual service for the guys who need a different kind of workout after practice."

Flora screeched, snatching the giant purple gyrating cock off the slick tiles and straight at his head. The weasel popped its batteries and died a slow, tinny death.

"Hey watch it!" He twisted to look at it over his shoulder. "You keep throwing your dick around and someone's liable to get a concussion."

The raucous boom of slamming double doors, the clatter of cleats on glazed tile, the thunder of male voices whooping and taunting, tripped apprehension up her naked spine. Oh, shit, practice is over.

"Well, well, well. Guess who's about to get caught with her pants down." Ian's smile broadened, clearly making the same connection.

He stood, leaning his rippling athletic build against the half-wall of the locker room showers with an insolent smile and an amused twinkle lighting his eyes.

His gaze lingered on her pussy. "Here kitty, kitty."

"Give me a towel," she begged as the voices grew louder. Any minute now and she'd be seen by the whole team. Her credibility would be shot to hell, but more than that, she'd worked hard to be the professional she'd become.

This would destroy her. Bobby had been after her job forever and without him even lifting a finger, her damn faery curse had delivered her fate to his doorstep. The board of directors would not overlook what appeared to be blatant fraternization with the team.

Ian sighed and pushed up from the wall. "Just remember, you owe me."

"Anything, just get me out of here without anyone seeing me." Flora muttered a curse at the prank-loving faeries who were probably watching with amusement. The gift of teleportation could have been fantastically convenient if it functioned properly. But no, it only worked at the worst times--and even then, unpredictably.

She huddled, squatting low to the floor. Ian unlaced his football pants with deliberate tugs. Flora's eyes bugged. "You've got to be kidding. You'll ruin me!"

"Oh honey, it'll fit. It always fits," he teased.

"Not that, you moron! My career." A locker slammed. Flora winced. "Hurry. Please, hurry."

Ian chuckled, shucked his pants, and handed them to her.

She looked back at him blankly.

"Put 'em on."

Sweaty, grass-stained football pants weren't her first choice, but it was all she had for the moment. She snatched them from his fingers, refusing to stare at his only remaining cover, a packed jockstrap.

He bent, picking up the dead dick and shoving the batteries back in. Before she finished lacing up the loose-fitting pants, he pushed the purple cock down one leg. "Authenticity," he said.

"No one has a cock this big."

"So you haven't slept with Bing. Good to know," Ian teased.

The image of sexy dark-skinned Bing strutting around the field like a warrior filled her mind. Oh God, she really shouldn't know that. But then again, maybe she could use him to promote something that would require a bathing suit. Or body soap.

"Put this on, too."

Pulled from her thoughts with the damp slap of jersey on her breasts, Flora automatically clutched it. It stank with stale body sweat. Ian reached behind the wall for the towel he'd brought and walked it over to her. Flora shimmied into the jersey, feeling the cool material stroke over her nipples and drape there. The hem fell low to her knees and she tucked it in at the front. The weight of the material still held it taut against every curve and highlighted the tips of her breasts.

She knew because she slept in a jersey just like it and used to wear it when she wanted to torment her ex-boyfriend. Show him the goods, without showing him the goods. It had proved quite an effective tool for getting what she wanted.

Standing still as a similar glazed-look came over Ian felt like waving a red flag before a bull. Payback's a bitch.

Ian moved close holding the towel over her head. For a moment she was obscured from the rest of the room, forced to look at Ian and his darkening blue eyes.

Locker doors slammed, their sound ricocheting off the hard tiles to announce her discovery was at hand. She might have whimpered. Trapped and at Ian's leisure, she fought the rise of panic.

"Keep this over your head. Let the ends hang down over your chest. Keep your face down and walk out through coach's door. He's going to be in the media room with the offensive and defensive coordinators. Don't look back. As long as they don't see your face, they won't know who you are."

He was right. It would be okay if she just kept her head down. And didn't transport into, say, a newsroom. Flora quickly shut down the wayward thought not wishing to tempt faery fate.

"Go," he whispered.

Flora ducked and bumped him as she moved around.

Ian caught her arm and whispered through the terrycloth. "Remember, you said anything. I'm holding you to it."

Something tugged at her crotch. Ian grabbed her fake cock and squeezed the base. Gelatinous George ground to life beneath the white spandex, rotating along her right thigh, determined to cream her knee.

Ian laughed, slapped her ass and said, "Go on, now."

"What the fuck?" she heard Bing yelp as he leaped back.

Flora raced away.

"That dude's dick was alive, man. Alive!" Bing swore as she stole through the suggested exit and raced for the empty visiting team's locker room. Thank God it was only a practice day.

She shoved the door closed and leaned against the wood facing a room identical to the team room but without any of the players. With shaking hands, she clamored for the courtesy phones next to her.

Jabbing in the numbers for her sister, she impatiently paced until Fauna picked up.

"Where are you?" Fauna asked, not bothering to say hello.

"In the secondary locker room. How did you know it was me?" Flora asked her twin.

"You only ever call me when you teleport somewhere and get stuck. You're also the only one I know who works at the stadium. Caller ID."

"This one was a beaut."

"Okay. I'll be there in about twenty," her sister said.

"Fauna? Bring clothes and shoes from my apartment. And my purse."

Silence reigned over the phone line. "I won't even ask."

"Thanks," Flora muttered.

"I'm not going all the way to the apartment, though. You'll have to wear my workout stuff, and I'll leave you some money for a cab."

"Fauna! C'mon! I can't show up to my office in sweats."

"Sure you can. Everyone else does. Some even wear those very chic whistles around their necks and eau de 'mildew' toilette oozing from their shoes. I'm sure one day without the diva sex kitten will be fine. Maybe even make you more approachable."

"Can't you drive me home?" Flora pleaded.

"I have a job. I'm leaving it to help you keep yours, which means I get to miss my lunch break later. I'll bring my workout clothes and some money. The rest is up to you. Do you want my help or not?"

"I want your help."

"I'll see you in twenty. I'll knock on the secondary locker room door so you know it's me."

Flora sighed. "Thanks, sis."

"You owe me."

Flora hung up and leaned her head back against the wood. "Stand in line. Apparently, I'm keeping a tab."

George the Beastmaster made another whining circuit by her knee. She jammed her hand into her pants and ripped it out to glare at the blindly flopping dick. "And you owe me. Never got that orgasm. You are being replaced."

It groaned out a gyration and four notes sluggishly began the musical round.

"Shut up."